Roses from a Rosy Nose
by arosynose
Summary: A collection of snippets involving Rumplestiltskin, Belle, and Rumbelle. Some are longer than others, and some are 60-second writing prompts. Stories range from fluff to angst and back again. Prompts welcome.
1. In the End

They are standing alone, at the end of all things.

The curse doesn't take kindly to being broken; it clings to life still, peeling away slowly like cheap paint. Unearthly forests and castles can be seen through the cracks.

A beauty and her beast stand together, watching it all fall apart.

"Will we remember this?" Her eyes are on the stream, as it crashes against it banks and washes away the earth.

"I'm not sure," he says honestly. He gives her hand a squeeze, drawing her attention. "But I think we will."

She smiles and steps closer. "Then, since I won't be able to, soon—may I kiss you?"

His laugh is low and unfamiliar, but it warms her to the core all the same. "You most certainly may."

As they kiss, the world falls apart.


	2. 60 second stories, 1

**Sweat**

Sweat pooled in the creases of his vest. The leather was hot and getting hotter, and his back burned under both the heat of the summer sun and the strain of bending over for so long. His muscles ached, and his clothes and hair were plastered to his skin.

He never should've agreed to gardening with Belle.

* * *

><p><strong>Sparkling<strong>

The light hit him, and it was breathtaking.

She watched as the sunlight broke across pebbly skin, and for the first time, his skin wasn't just mottled or froggish. It was dazzling.

In the sunlight, he sparkled.

* * *

><p><strong>Shepherd<strong>

He is a wolf, and she a sheep.

That's the first metaphor she can think of, and for a while, it is the most apt. It's only when he catches her that she starts to think otherwise. Wolves, after all, never save the lambs. It's only shepherds who look after their sheep.

* * *

><p><strong>Bland<strong>

The porridge is the dullest thing he's tasted in months. Was food always like this?

He racks his brain for a memory of how he'd eaten before, but all he can think of is that porridge had tasted sweet and cinnamony just three days ago.

He vows never again to let Belle get sick.

* * *

><p><strong>Dim<strong>

He withholds a sigh as Cinderella giggles and coos over her new dress. It's a ridiculously garish thing he'd meant as a mockery more than anything, but of course this poor girl thinks it's beautiful.

He longs for plain blue dresses and sensible shoes.

* * *

><p><strong>Hover<strong>

She's asleep. It would be so easy to reach out and feel her soft skin against his fingertips.

So easy.

His hand dances over her bare skin, hovering.

* * *

><p><strong>Clue<strong>

She never knows what he's thinking.

He's purposefully vague, and evasive at the best of times. More often than not, he makes personal statements into a joke, so she has no idea what to think of him.

But today, there's a flower waiting on her nightstand when she wakes.

She thinks she might be beginning to understand.


	3. 60 second stories, 2

**Serviette**

Watching her eat is dangerous, now. It's all too easy to get transfixed by the motion of her lips against the smooth skin of an apple, or mesmerized by the way her throat bobs when she swallows a mouthful of wine.

She puckers her lips to dab at the corners with a handkerchief, and he excuses himself.

* * *

><p><strong>Mile<strong>

His knee is ready to give out, and his lungs inflate painfully with every breath of icy air he takes.

Running away is not as easy as everyone seems to think, but he will gladly walk as far as need be to keep his son safe.

* * *

><p><strong>Generation<strong>

He's old. The curse keeps him living through wars and plagues, and successions of kings. He's seen hills rise and mountains fall, and springs bubble from dry ground. He's seen forests take root in barren wastes and grow to dwarf any man.

And she is so young.

* * *

><p><strong>Real Estate<strong>

She wrinkles her nose and laughs at the sight of his house.

"This is where you live?" she giggles. "In a big pink hut? What happened to your 'rather large estate'?"

"Part of the curse," he says, unwilling to be ruffled.

"I like it," she says, and her smile is brighter than the house.

* * *

><p><strong>Animal Kingdom<strong>

He isn't human anymore, and he knows it very well. His skin is rough and shines in the light, he has claws instead of fingernails, and his eyes are completely inhuman. He's a monster, and it's obvious to everyone.

But Belle looks at him like he's a man.

* * *

><p><strong>Illegitimacy<strong>

Baelfire is his son. He's born and raised under Rumplestitskin's tender care, clothed and fed by him, taught right from wrong by the man he calls papa.

What should it matter that he was born a year after Rumplestiltskin was sent off to war?

* * *

><p><strong>Ease<strong>

Mending the cup would be so easy. A simple spell, and he wouldn't have to avoid the chip in its rim.

But something—whether it's Belle's chagrined smile when she sees him using it, or just his own twisted humor—makes him keep it as damaged as it is.

* * *

><p><strong>Snake<strong>

Gardening is the biggest waste of time he's ever engaged in. It's all dirt and sweaty palms in ill-fitting gloves, and he has no idea why or how Belle takes such pleasure in it. He's been pricked by thorns thrice already, and his calves are sore. Manual labor is such a bore.

Then Belle finds a snake burrow, and things get a little more interesting.


	4. Purple on Porcelain

He should have known better, he should have _known_ to be careful not to break his little Belle. But she isn't his, and in the wake of her betrayal he shakes her like a leaf in a thunderstorm. His hands wrap around her wrists and _wrench_, pulling her forward and twisting her porcelain bones in his grip.

All he can hear is the roaring in his ears, the rush of _betrayal_ and _lies, all the lies, she lied she lied she LIED_—and so he misses the sound of her bones grinding together. She whimpers, and he _shrieks_, spitting fire and blood until she turns away, trembling.

His fingers remain locked around her as he pulls her down, down, down towards the dungeon, to unforgiving stone and thin straw that makes for poor packaging. He throws her into the cell, and her knees meet rock with a sickening noise that does not reach his thundering ears. He leaves her to her regret, and ascends the stairs to the rooms where beauty bloomed.

Everything is a reminder, a betrayal of his trust for months, _months_, and he takes a knife to the memories, cutting them out and smashing them against his sanity, where they shatter. There is nothing to catch their fall, there, where bitterness makes for rough terrain.

The tea set goes much the same, but the chipped one gives him pause. Thoughts of harsh hands on her wrists come bubbling to the surface, and as they pop open and unfold he _remembers_, how purple and green had bloomed across pale cream, and bird-like bones had given feeble protest to his outrage.

He shudders, leaves the broken memories behind and _runs_ past trophies and tea sets to the only thing that really matters.

She's asleep in the hay, peaceful where she lies, eyes closed and hands folded across her lap. Mottled vines snake around her skin, bleeding from her pulse and where his fingertips lay. They are a shadow of his misuse, a symptom of her abuse, and he backs away.

The wine, that night, is almost as red as the memories he left behind, scattered where they fell and shattered.


End file.
